


Lady and the Tramp

by Yavannie



Series: Intermissions [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, Cuddling, F/M, Figuring Sexuality Out, Friendship, Kissing, Post Episode s01e07, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 19:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10342719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: Once upon a time, the world had been a simpler place. A place where he'd loved Betty from afar, Betty had lovedArchiefrom afar and Archie, with all the awareness and quick wits of a turtle in hibernation, had been oblivious to the whole shebang. It hadn't been an ideal situation, but at least it had been one that made sense.Post 1.07 reflection. Relatively canon compliant. While I love that Jughead isaroace in the current comics run, this work is based on the current situation in the TV show so I'm taking it from there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed! I'll happily take constructive criticism.

Would You Rather Have Food Or Sex? _Oh, BuzzFeed, you sure do know how to keep an insomniac entertained._

 

The screen is dimmed right down, but he still pulls the covers all the way up to make sure the light doesn’t spill out. He doesn't know whether Archie is a light or heavy sleeper, and he’s got a feeling this quiz will involve some fairly NSFW content. He starts to scroll, and sure enough, the images that flicker past are positively delectable.

 

‘Which do you want more? The thrill of finally undressing someone you’ve been lusting after for weeks OR a Shake Shack burger in your mouth RIGHT NOW.’

 

_This, Dr Watson, is what I would consider a prime example of an absolute no-brainer. Next!_

 

‘If you could only have one of these, which would you go for? The rising swell of ecstasy as you and your partner move in unison OR really crispy bacon.’

 

A low rumble in his belly tells him taking this quiz was a very bad idea.

 

‘What would you rather have? The gentle touch of your lover’s lips against yours OR a delicious sandwich.’

 

He pauses, his thumb hovering over the picture of an overflowing BLT. Then he puts the phone down and peeks out into the dark room, craning his neck to look at the black-on-black silhouette that is Betty’s roof, barely visible outside the window.

 

_Confusion, thy name is Jughead_.

 

Once upon a time, the world had been a simpler place. A place where he'd loved Betty from afar, Betty had loved _Archie_ from afar and Archie, with all the awareness and quick wits of a turtle in hibernation, had been oblivious to the whole shebang. It hadn't been an ideal situation, but at least it had been one that made sense.

 

Now, Archie is kissing teachers, Veronica Lodge, Valerie Brown and god knows who else, Jughead is kissing Betty and Betty is… Betty is _kissing Jughead_ and, hoo boy, he is _not_ ready for this.

 

It’s like the plot of some stock coming of age romcom. Because isn't this how they all go? The cheerleader slash good girl finally stops pining for the quarterback – that's what he is, right? Football positions are not Jughead’s strongest suit. You could in fact call it his _weakest_ suit. The kind of suit that's missing the vest, both jacket arms and half a leg. Anyway, the girl sees the proverbial reason and falls for the quiet, kind, nerdy type who’s been there for her all along.

 

Jughead, at this very moment, is up there with the Paul Rudds, the Joseph Gordon-Levitts, the very _Brian Backers_ of Riverdale High. It ends with a kiss and, presumably, everyone lives happily ever after. But this time, the kiss isn't the end. It's a start, like a rollercoaster crawling up the rails towards the inevitable drop. At the moment it's fine, but he can already feel the knot in his stomach tightening at the thought of that downwards rush. Because where could it ever go from here but down?

 

A year ago, he went to a party with Archie. He can't even remember why now, but most likely it was just something to _do_. There had been a girl there from the next town; Susan or Sarah or Sharon or something like that. She had been pestering him all night, making her intentions crystal clear one move at a time until he'd fled the scene when she tried to crawl up into his lap.

 

“You could have scored tonight,” Archie said as they were walking home.

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Thanks but no thanks.”

 

“Why not? She was gorgeous!”

 

He thought about it; reluctantly pictured her face, her hair, her body. “I'll agree that she was objectively attractive”, he said eventually, “but far be it from me to take advantage of someone under the influence.”

 

Archie gave him a sidelong glance. “She had _one_ drink the entire time we were there. She was too busy hitting on you to get anywhere _close_ to drunk.” It was clear from his tone that he was not letting this one go.

 

He shrugged. “I didn't want to. I don't _know_ her. It wasn't…” He trailed off, unsure of whether he really wanted to put it into words. _It_ . Whatever _it_ was.

 

To his surprise, Archie slapped a hand down on his shoulder, stopping him right there in the street. “It's cool, man,” he said. “I totally understand. I was nervous at first, too. I mean before my first… You know. It gets easier though. I mean a _lot_ easier. You just have to get it over with. And if you want any advice...”

 

Jughead cringed. “Yeah,” he said, cutting Archie off. “Absolutely. I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

He turns over to look at the dark ceiling, hands behind his neck. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ it. He’s wanted to be with Betty for as long as he can remember, and maybe that’s the problem. This whole thing is like a joke where someone cut you off right before you got to the punchline. And the punchline has been hanging in the air for not just seconds, but years, and then all of a sudden someone says “what were you saying?”, and you just know that whatever that punchline is, it’s going to sound lame. He’s had it on the tip of his tongue since they were twelve years old. And Jughead? He is the very definition of lame.

 

So, maybe…  Maybe he’s just afraid it won’t live up to his expectations. Or that _he’ll_ be a disappointment. Yeah, that’s probably it. He bites his lip, then gropes around for his beanie and pulls it on. Archie will most likely comment or give him A Look in the morning but it’s 3.15 and sometimes you have to pick your battles. 

 

* * *

  
  
They’re at the laundromat, not only because Jughead has been washing his own clothes here since mom left, but because there’s no point in getting too comfortable. Staying with the Andrews’ is temporary. A month. Maybe two. An air mattress is fine, and he’s never been one to say no to a hearty breakfast, but he draws the line at throwing his boxers in with Archie’s. Besides, this is neutral ground, and they don’t have to listen out for steps in the hallway or, worse, make Archie the weirdest of wheels in his own bedroom.  
  
“This is the last place she’d think to look for me,” Betty says, meaning her overprotective to the point of being creepy mom. She’s sitting on one of the top-load dryers, happily waggling her feet. Jughead’s across the narrow room, on the rusty wire bench they’ve dubbed The Iron Throne; it’s not nearly as menacing but likely twice as uncomfortable as its namesake. Betty motions playfully at him to get up and join her, and he replies with the world’s most dishonest lazy groan.

 

“I’ve only just managed to find a spot where no vital organs are in any immediate danger of impalement,” he complains.

 

“Your loss,” she says, and yes, yes it is.

 

The cold, fluorescent light tints her hair a strange green color, almost as if they’re under the sea. For a split second he imagines her as a mermaid, gliding gracefully through the water, seducing poor, unsuspecting sailors like himself, and before he knows it he’s washed up in her arms again.

 

Kissing Betty feels good. It feels so damn good he forgets to think, and that in itself feels even better. Those few seconds when he’s floating weightless in the warm, soft space that is her lips against his is enough to make him cope with the rest. He could do this all day every day for the foreseeable future.

 

Only it’s not that simple, is it?

 

* * *

 

 

Her bed is unbelievably soft. It’s a miracle he doesn’t sink through the duvet and drop into some suburban upside-down where everything is pink, flowery and covered with menacing kittens. The Coopers are out of town tonight and as far as Betty knows, they haven’t yet resorted to CCTV cameras in her bedroom. Jughead still gives a teddy bear a suspicious look before turning it around to face the wall.

 

Betty comes in, carrying a tray loaded with drinks and snacks, and while she draws the curtains and dims the lights he readies the laptop. She's been nothing short of a bundle of frazzled nerves the last few days, and for once, she says, she just wants to do something _normal_. Like watching a movie. Like... _Netflix and chill_. Thinking about it makes his skin crawl a bit, and even though no one's actually said those specific words, that's clearly what this is. They've watched movies together before, at the Twilight, at Archie’s… But always with a group of friends in a general hanging out context. Never like this. _This_. Whatever _this_ will be. He carefully stores that thought away for now, because thinking about it is like prodding a wasp nest. He’s still unsure whether he’s hoping for new developments, or if he's on the verge of freaking the hell out.

 

She's no hardcore movie buff but she knows her way around the auteurs and must-sees, and even though all that technically doesn't matter, he likes that she does. She lets him pick what to watch, but she has reservations, so _Point Break_ it is.

 

“Really?” says Betty, looking skeptically at the cheesy cover picture on the screen.

 

“It's a classic! And look,” he points at Kathryn Bigelow’s name, “female director. As per your request.”

 

“I don't know, Juggie…” She sounds utterly unconvinced.

 

“Come on, have a little faith!”

 

Betty grumbles but soon nestles up to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. She fits frighteningly well there, in the crook of his arm. The opening credits roll, but he barely sees them. Instead, he finds himself watching Betty’s chest, pressed against his side. He shivers slightly, as if he’s suddenly cold, and he has to try his hardest to keep himself from trembling uncontrollably. Desperate for a distraction, he leans over and grabs some popcorn and crams it in his mouth. As he chews, he thinks about popcorn kernels and bits that get stuck in teeth, and kissing Betty, and logically, his next course of action is to down a quarter gallon of soda.

 

Betty looks up at him, half-frowning, then prods his belly. “We had dinner half an hour ago. Where does it all go?”

 

“I haven’t told you about my super power, have I?”

 

“What? That you have… I don’t know, a metabolism equivalent to that of an entire football team?”

 

He just about manages to keep a straight face. “Yes. _Exactly_. Who told you? I may have to kill them.”

 

That earns him a light punch in the side, and they both burst out laughing, and suddenly, everything feels normal and safe again.

 

Somewhere in the middle of the movie, Betty starts plucking at his t-shirt. She does it in a sort of absent-minded way, her eyes trained on the screen, and he’s not even sure she’s aware of what she’s doing. To Jughead, though, it quickly becomes the only thing he can focus on. Her fingers, dancing over a little spot just below his rib. It makes him nervous, because those fingers are threatening to wander off into thoroughly unexplored territory. _Netflix and chill_. The words loom over them like some ominous cloud that promises a downpour of awkward, clumsy sex. It will happen sooner or later. One thing will lead to another, because _that’s just what happens_.

 

And shouldn’t he be thrilled? Shouldn’t _stuff_ be happening to his body?

 

He recalls a completely uncalled for conversation with Reggie at the end of last term. Yes, obviously _all_ conversations with Reggie are completely uncalled for, but this one was worse than usual.

 

“Hey, _Jug_ head,” Reggie had called after him in the hall.

 

Like the idiot he was, Jughead had stopped. Reggie strolled towards him with what he probably imagined was a cocky swagger, but in fact resembled the labored waddle of a constipated duck. “Yes, Reginald?” said Jughead flatly.

 

Reggie scowled at that. “I’ve seen you in biology with Ginger.”

 

Rarely though it happened, Jughead had to admit he was lost for words. “What?” he asked stupidly.

 

“In biology. With Ginger.” He was standing awfully close now, towering over Jughead, arms crossed and knuckles skillfully nudging his biceps into their full capacity.

 

“Yeah… We share a table?”

 

“I’m about _this_ close to getting with Ginger,” said Reggie, measuring what looked to be his own IQ between his thumb and forefinger while stepping so close that Jughead felt compelled to physically lean back. “And I’m just here making sure you’re not getting any ideas.”

 

Jughead stared at him for a second or two. Was this guy for real? “Maybe take this up with Haggly?” he suggested. “Seeing as she was the one who partnered us up?” At the word ‘partnered’, Reggie’s eyes darkened, so Jughead hastened to add, “Partnered as in _lab_ partners. Dissecting cows’ eyes and the like. And I can tell you there’s _nothing_ less romantic than cutting up dead animals. Ginger is all yours, pal. I have no interest whatsoever. What. So. Ever.”

 

His sincerity must have made an impression, because Reggie stepped back with a confused frown. “Huh,” he said. Then after a while, “Huh. So you’re telling me that you can spend an hour that close to Ginger and not–”

 

“Yes,” said Jughead firmly, interrupting whatever godawful thought was forming in that sordid little brain.

 

Reggie seemed to relax, a broad grin spreading across his face. “What are you, a monk? I can’t even look at her without getting half a stiffy.”

 

“Oh my god,” said Jughead and turned away, trying his best to deploy the emergency mind bleach.

 

And here he is, cuddled up with the girl he’s always wanted, and he’s happier than he’s been in ages, and yet things are not proceeding according to protocol. He has imagined being in this situation many a time, but if he’s completely honest with himself, Jughead has always left the how and when hanging, picturing it only in the vaguest of terms. Betty drums her fingers on his belly, and he can feel himself starting to panic slightly, half wanting to freeze this moment in time to make sure this place, this sweet spot between friendship and intimacy never becomes anything else. Another side of him is telling him to just get it together, to man up and make a move. _Get it over with_ , Archie’s voice echoes in his head. _You just have to get it over with_.

 

“Wait, who is this guy?” says Betty.

 

The sound of her voice makes him jump a little, and he stares at the screen, trying to shake himself of the weird funk he’d been in. “Uuuh,” he says uncertainly.

 

“Juggie, were you _sleeping_?”

 

“I may have dozed off,” he says, immediately jumping at this excuse, served on a silver platter with all the trimmings. “And that’s Rosie.”

 

“Wait, I’m confused, I must have missed something.”

 

And with an unusual amount of enthusiasm, he explains to her about Rosie, and for the rest of the movie, they joke and laugh and make snarky comments and rate 90’s outfits out of ten, and everything is just as it should be.

 

And then, as the closing credits roll, she brings it up.

 

“So… Do you want to stay?”

 

“Sure,” he says, far too quickly, and then regrets everything about it. That he said it, _how_ he said it, what it might lead to.

 

“So…” she says again, wringing her hands.

 

“Can I just…?” he picks up his bag and points towards her door.

 

“Oh! Of course!”

 

He stares at himself in the mirror while brushing his teeth. Jughead Jones, in Betty Cooper’s fragrant, neat, flowery bathroom. Everything here is light and clean; the very opposite of trailers, projection booths and random cupboards. Why does she want him here? That is but one in an ocean of questions he hasn’t dared dip his toes into yet. A more pressing matter is that regardless of _why_ , she’s made it pretty clear that things between them should be moving along. There’s a window in the bathroom, and he briefly considers it. He’s not sure Betty would ever talk to him again if he ran away now though, and that’s not a risk he’s willing to take.

 

He takes his hat off and pulls his fingers through his hair a couple of times. Without it, he feels smaller, somehow.

 

“You’re not doing this with a hat on,” he says firmly to himself before stuffing it into the bag.

 

In a t-shirt and sweatpants, he makes his way back to Betty’s room only to find it empty. For a moment he stands there, feeling lost. This is where he first kissed her, he thinks, and then the door opens behind him. She’s changed into her pyjamas as well, and her hair is down.

 

“Two bathrooms,” she says by way of explanation, and for some reason, his brain chooses this precise moment to overload.

 

He bends down to kiss her, but instead of letting her lips carry him off into that brief never neverland, he stays alert, moving one hand to tangle in her hair the way he’s seen countless leading men do. The other he puts on her chest, and he hates how it trembles when he traces the curve of her breast through her shirt.

 

And she pulls away.

 

“Juggie, I…”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, backing off. His heart is pounding in his ears, and for some reason, he’s shaking so badly his teeth are chattering.

 

She closes the distance between them in one brief step. “Oh my god, Jughead, are you okay?”

 

He can feel her wrap her arms around him, and he melts into the embrace with such relief that he almost drops to his knees. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

 

“Why?” she says, her voice a whisper against his shoulder. When he doesn’t reply, she gently leads him to the bed.

 

They curl up beneath the covers, Betty lying pressed against his back, one arm wrapped tightly across his chest. They don’t speak, but it’s not a bad kind of silence.

 

At some point they fall asleep, and it's a good sleep. Maybe the best he’s had in years.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Take the BuzzFeed quiz [here.](https://www.buzzfeed.com/tomphillips/food-or-sex?utm_term=.ud4Aj4oK5K#.dpdq6mNDBD)


End file.
